


eveything they ever told us shakes our faith and breaks their promise

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [8]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Because plot, Chronic Pain, Dissociation, Existential Angst, Gen, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Suicidal Thoughts, another short one, fantasy judaism, so much for nearly canon compliant huh, the next one will be... long, tiso's turn to be Very Upset About This!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27031726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Tiso tires of death.
Relationships: Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), The Knight & Tiso (Hollow Knight)
Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039
Comments: 10
Kudos: 83





	eveything they ever told us shakes our faith and breaks their promise

The squib gets upset, when Tiso explains.

There isn’t much of an expression on their face, but they’re definitely upset, if the shaking means anything at all. They pace in tight circles, gripping the hilt of their nail but not drawing it from their back.

They look how Tiso feels—crushed, betrayed, taut and shuddering with fury. They turn on their heels, some violent determination in the set of their tiny shoulders, then turn back.

They point at Quirrel, and then they’re gone. Tiso hears their footsteps move away, hears the air part as they draw their nail to clear their path.

Quirrel is staring up at the ceiling, as though in silent contemplation. He looks like he could be at peace, but Tiso knows better. He knows what hope looks like on Quirrel’s face—this isn’t hope. If it is, it’s for something Tiso can’t give.

“Q?” Tiso asks, hesitantly. 

Quirrel’s head drops down and sideways, less like he’s turning to look at Tiso and more as though he’s simply ceased to hold his head up.

They aren’t safe here. The Crossroads used to be safe, but something’s happened since then. Something, somewhere, broke open, and now this quiet place is full of light and sickness.

Tiso can’t stop shaking. They walked here— _ he _ walked here, pulling Quirrel along—and now he’s paying for it.

It’s not safe here.

Tiso starts walking again. His legs ache so badly that it bypasses pain and becomes a haze over his awareness, no more or less real than anything else, imparting its real-unreality to Tiso’s limbs and thoughts.

Quirrel follows. Quirrel follows, the way he’s been following, without Tiso even asking.

“Just a little longer,” Tiso says, not sure who he’s trying to convince.

Tiso follows his instincts. He finds a nook in the wall, warm and tight and as close to safe as he can get.

He sets his shield against the wall, peels Quirrel’s fingers from the hilt of his nail and sets that aside too.

Tiso’s not part of a colony anymore; there’s no one patrolling outside. But the alcove feels close enough to a dead-end tunnel, to a room in a nest. Close enough. Close enough for Tiso to gather Quirrel against his chest and shut his stinging eyes.

Quirrel gasps, like he’s been hit, like he’s coming up for air. His fingers curl against Tiso’s sides, scrabble against bandages and carapace—painfully, but what  _ isn’t _ painful—and then Quirrel’s arms wrap around Tiso, and something coiled up in Quirrel, or in Tiso, or in both of them, falls loose into an exhausted ache.

Tiso leans his head back against the wall, thinking of the tribe of moths that lived a day’s walk from his colony. Their traditions weren’t the same, of course. Even the Dreamtongue was slightly different. But they were still dream-shapers, tribe-families, children of the Light.

He thinks of the Promise, carved into stone, painted onto shells, whispered as a prayer.

_ You can’t cut out a belief, even if you kill the source. _

Quirrel is crying, quietly.

Tiso is thinking of the songs the workers sang.

Tiso’s pain sharpens without warning, pierces him like nails and needles from every side, then relents back into soft-edged fog.

“She’s dead,” Quirrel says, in an empty voice. He might have been speaking before, but Tiso only now hears him. “My Madame’s dead, twice over, just to keep the Light dead too.”

Tiso doesn’t answer. He’s said all he can—all he knows. He doesn’t have anything left.

“They’re all dead,” Quirrel goes on, his voice cracking like a carapace between claws. “This kingdom’s dead. Its gods are dead and its people are dead and its saviors were lied to.”

“We’re still alive,” Tiso says.

“Why?” Quirrel asks, just like Tiso knew he would.

“To lay them to rest,” Tiso says. “It’s our responsibility, as the living, to ensure the dead are properly buried, and not forgotten. We’ve lapsed, but we can still make it right.”

Quirrel doesn’t look convinced. He just looks tired. But he rests his forehead against Tiso’s, breathes out slowly, and kisses him, just once, like he’s sealing a promise.

“Where do we start?” he asks.

“We find a way to stop this without anyone else having to die,” Tiso says. He thinks of the squib and their nail, of the Temple bleeding orange light, of moths and vessels, statues and chains.

Quirrel staggers to his feet and picks up his nail. “We should probably catch up with the little wanderer,” he says. “They seem to be the one driving this forward.”

Tiso’s legs still ache, when he stands. But he stands anyway, and takes Quirrel’s offered hand. “Maybe we can be the ones to make it end.”

Something soft takes root in the sharpness of Quirrel’s determination. “I’d like that,” he says, not quite smiling. “I’d like that.”


End file.
